


For You

by redscout



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: Sam Gamgee receives a visit from an old friend.





	For You

**Author's Note:**

> set about 2 years after the ringbearers had left for the grey havens though this is implied within (and based upon the movies’ canon of events, if that wasn't obvious). an idea of long time coming i was unwilling to leave festering in my subconscious despite its facility. there are probably more than a few errors for i am tired.   
> final disclaimer: i am in no way attempting to undermine or erase the mental strain frodo endured nor downplay his actual reasons for leaving. i just like to make people sad. enjoy

Bag End felt emptier than it ever had the past couple of years. The windows were always open, so the breeze and soft rains would filter in enough noise to keep it alive and whispering. And people still came knocking— other Bagginses, mostly, or characters Sam had never seen before looking for Bilbo for reasons never specified. He was polite anyway, merely stating he wasn’t around Hobbiton anymore, which was the truth. Maybe not the entire truth, but truthful nonetheless. Rose had left about a year ago, too, taking Elanor and Frodo with her. It was nothing but amicable; he worked too hard, seemed too distracted to be with her after everything. Even Sam couldn’t place it, but he didn’t argue, nor did he oppose the accusation. Things had just been _different_ after the Ringbearers had left. That was all.

He sat in the study once belonging to the Bagginses, brushing a spare speck of dust off the edge of the desk. The numerous papers and books and maps Bilbo had left behind had been organized lovingly and alphabetically, though sometimes Sam missed the organized mess they seemed so fond of. He caught Frodo in the study often, reading over his cousin’s work with those wide eyes full of curiosity. Even though the smial had been left to him, Sam couldn’t toss out the rest of its previous inhabitants’ belongings for one reason or another. It felt wrong, the thought. Disrespectful. And he was happy to keep what he could of it, if not for the history of the Bagginses who lived here, then for himself.

Not much had crossed his mind in the years since their departure, and Sam lived and adjusted the same way he always had. He gardened in Bag End’s garden, and in his parents’ old house in Bagshot Row, and any other odd jobs he could find around the rest of Hobbiton. He still celebrated both Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday with small get-togethers in Bag End, with acquaintances who seemed to miss them, but similarly were glad they had gone. He seldom accepted visitors otherwise, and kept mostly to himself with small correspondence with Rose every now and then. Eventually, his isolation extended to a sign on the gate similar to one that had rested there in the past, in short, detailing that Bilbo and Frodo were no longer around and that he would take missives for them no more, and it seemed to work for a time.

It was not until the Shire was deep into the heart of winter, garden work dwindling to what little foliage Sam kept inside, that he is disturbed again. He’s sitting languidly in front of the fire, one of Bilbo’s old books and a mug of tea in hand, when there’s a knocking on the front door. Sam starts, looking up, sure he’s hallucinated it; it was dark out, and the walk up to Bag End was slick with a thin snowfall the day before. Worst of all it meant someone had not paid heed to the sign on the gate, which surely someone seeking Bilbo or Frodo would have. A short silence follows, and, fully convinced of his brief lapse in perception, turns back to his book. A minute later and a knock comes again, harsher, and Sam sits up now, disturbed.

“Be goin’ on your way, now, and leave a hobbit to his tea!” he shouts, on his way to inspect who could possibly be intruding on his peaceful night at home with a glance through the peep hole. He stops short, however, when no noise follows for a time, thinking whoever it was had gone. He pauses longer this time, trying to make sure, and groans to himself when he hears a shuffling outside. “Go, please, listen, we ain’t accepting messages for the Masters, nor any visitors this late at night.”

“Not even an old friend?” Sam stops cold at the light voice behind the door, and he doesn’t believe his ears. Without thinking, he throws the door open, only to be met by a face he’s been longing to see for ages.

“M-Mr. Frodo?” he stammers out, and Frodo offers a wide smile.

“Hello, Sam.” It’s Frodo’s turn to be surprised as Sam leaps into him with a tight hug, and Frodo hugs back eagerly, laughing. The two stand like that for what feels like a very long time, clutching to each other as if they perceived they would never meet again. Sam finally gains his bearings, resisting getting emotional, and scrambles to let him inside.

“Oh, surely you’re cold, please come on in,” he muses, quickly, stepping aside so that the other hobbit may pass. Sam notes absently Frodo had seemed to have gained some of the weight lost during their adventure back since his freedom of the Ring, and for that he was glad, ever the faithful caretaker. “I’ve got tea for you, now hold on just a minute. You know where to make yourself comfortable, with all due respect, there, Mr. Frodo.” Sam mumbles the words out at an alarming speed, obviously nervous of his sudden company. Frodo retains his smile as he takes a seat at the kitchen table, watching Sam hurry about the kettle and pour him a mug. “What brings you back to the Shire?” he finally finds the good grace to ask, and passes the mug over to Frodo as he takes his seat. 

“Stopping by,” Frodo says, and the answer is left hollow as he sips at his tea. Sam taps his toes, watching Frodo’s every move, enamored.

“How was the Grey Havens?” Frodo thinks on this question a bit more, and after a time, shakes his head, as if remembering something long past.

“You would love it. It’s filled with elves, more beautiful than we’re even used to seeing, and tall, stark and ancient buildings.” Sam listens with wide eyes, trying desperately to paint a worthy picture of it in his mind. “A wonderful place, but...” Frodo trails off, and his eyes fall to his lap. Sam’s gaze doesn’t falter, puzzled by the change of tone.

“But?”

“It’s no Shire,” Frodo muses, mostly to himself, and Sam frowns.

“No happiness awaited you there, either?” Sam says slowly, the words coming out softer than he anticipated.

“Well, it did, or so I thought. But it wasn’t the same. Even if the Shire wasn’t saved for me, I had an uneasiness about me there I couldn’t place. Something was just... _missing_ ,” he adds, and Sam stares.

“So, I... imagine you’re not ‘just stopping by,’” he affirms, electing to ignore that he felt the exact same way. Frodo gives a poignant hum, sinking a tad lower on the bench. An uncomfortable silence hangs for a moment, until Frodo starts, his sharp eyes darting back up to Sam.

“Where’s Rosie?” he asks suddenly, and Sam sits up, tensing, the skin on the back of his neck prickling with heat. “And dear Elanor, and Frodo? I long to meet them again.”

“Rose, is...” Sam pauses, takes a breath, and folds his hands. “We’ve gone our separate ways. Not for good, mind you, but I think we both came to the conclusion we’d rather rushed into things.” He pauses again, Frodo’s eyes widely aghast. “Not all that many tears were shed.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo says softly, but Sam waves him off.

“‘Tis fine. Happens, obviously, and the feelings were nothin’ but mutual, I’m afraid.” He hesitates, unsure if he should continue, and wishes he had in his hand now a mug of ale instead of tea. “I share a similar sentiment, though, about things being different.”

“Peculiar.” Frodo looks at his hands for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, and then he sits up, looking directly at his companion and longing to once again meet eyes. “Sam,” he utters, and Sam does look up at this. “Do you mind if I share with you, something of deep, personal thought?”

“‘Course not, Mr. Frodo, anything for you,” Sam states, not missing a beat despite his curiosity.

“I... I’m not really sure how to say it.” Frodo’s eyes rest on the fire ahead, and Sam makes out fear braided into his tight expression, wondering what could possibly have plagued his master so. “Sam, I... I left the Shire, because of you.” The statement hangs in the air for a long while. Frodo refuses to look up, for he knows if he does, the hurt, confused visage of his very best friend will befall him. The wind dances over the contents of the shelf underneath the window briefly, and then it is silent once more.

“Me?” Sam eventually chokes out.

“I was happy for you, at first, when you informed me you were getting married and would very much like me to be your best man,” the hobbit continues. “And then, after a time, I began to realize that through this happiness there also existed a hurt of which I could not explain. I never mentioned it for fear of it coming between what we already had. All I knew is that I couldn’t remain here with... I don’t know.” His eyes flutter near shut, and Sam is leaning in a bit closer now. “It sounds stupid, now, to say it aloud. To leave because your best friend was married to somebody else.” Sam feels the silence around them, and feels as if he is suffocating in it, with the information being shared. He’d known Frodo practically his whole life, and the nature of their relationship never seemed openly to be questioned— until now.

“...W-what, pray, are you implying, Mr. Frodo?” His voice comes out much more meek and timid than he’s used to, and he swallows. 

“I did some thinking in the Grey Havens, then, and talked at length with Gandalf about it,” Frodo continues, seemingly ignoring Sam’s question. “And it came about so slowly I thought there was no answer. But it struck me, then, some years later, that thing that was missing— that was _you,_ Sam. You I was missing.” Sam thinks on these words, touched, though still confused.

“Well, I missed you too, if that’s any consolation, I—“

“Sam,” Frodo interrupts, seriously, and they meet eyes again now. “You haven’t pieced it together, much, have you? Sam, I...” He pauses, and bites his bottom lip, and it makes Sam sad to see the fear return to his eyes. “I think I may have fallen in love with you.” Sam blanches at those words, and the awkward pause that follows is one of the worst felt yet. Frodo stares into his mug disinterestedly, his face scrunched up into something of deep malcontent. Sam prays silently that he doesn’t cry, for he is positive he doesn’t have the strength to bear it at the moment. He wishes suddenly that it were a fine afternoon in the middle of spring, and Mr. Frodo had merely invited him inside after the morning rounds in the garden for tea and tarts as he sometimes did. He longed to hear the birds chirping outside, and the squirrels dashing about in the hedges at the foot of the window, and the children of the Shire laughing and playing outside. He longed that things were as they once were, free entirely of the Ring; that he should not remember such innocent fooling around under shady clifftops or the long, strained looks they would share, desperate to spill their thoughts in their entirety and yet keep that part of themselves safe, still. He wishes at once that it would vanish from his memory, and also that he had noticed sooner.

“I should be taking my leave, then,” Frodo says quietly, standing, having interpreted Sam’s silence for hesitance or upset. “Terribly sorry to have disturbed you in the middle of the winter, Sam Gamgee.” Sam swallows at the use of his full name, and he starts, making a move to stand himself.

“Frodo,” he says, sharp. “—you haven’t disturbed me, and I wish you would sit back down, and stay.” He speaks as if on autopilot, and Frodo turns, searching for something in Sam’s expression he doesn’t seem to find. He takes a seat slowly, once more, fully sheepish now. He felt deeply that he’d made a very large mistake, and Sam could tell. “Frodo,” he says again, and takes a breath to steady himself. “Now I’m not quite sure what to make of that declaration, if... if only it had come to me to do the same, in the past, if you understand me.” Something in Frodo’s eyes twitch, a little light, and he stares at Sam intensely now. “I never felt sure how to put thoughts into words. I was sure I’d lay down my life for you, and you knew that, but maybe you didn’t know it went beyond that. Even with your harmless flirtings somethin’ remained. And in the end, when the Ring had all but gone and mucked up your head, I just figured... keepin’ you around as nothin’ more than a friend would do better than sticking my neck out in the dark.” He rubs his neck and his arms, some heat resting contentedly in his cheeks, though he’s far from embarrassment. “And you were always so insistent about me gettin’ together with Rosie, I figured there was no way you could feel the same, you— that you could love me back, as I had loved you. As I, had always loved you,” he stammers to a final close, sniffing. Frodo’s face is unreadable, some tension visibly lifting from his figure in the moment.

“Sam,” he utters, but Sam shakes his head.

“It’s alright now, Mr. Frodo,” he offers, a smile coloring his features despite the pooling of tears in his eyes. “And I’m very much touched to hear of your news.”

“And... I, yours,” Frodo returns, and makes a move to stand just as Sam does. They meet in a firm embrace before either of them can stop themselves, rocking softly in the spot. Frodo’s very sure now that he wants to cry, too, but he merely buries his face into the crook of Sam’s neck and breathes in deeply, absorbing the whole of his beloved gardener, how he still smelled of freshly tilled earth and the soft morning dew, how his roughed hands were still the ideal makings of a horticulturalist and a masseuse, the perfect blend of soft and hardy. He takes in every aspect of him and realizes once more just how comfortable it is to lay in Sam’s arms, with his tranquil and content air. Frodo imparts a short cry of happiness, and then gives way to tears himself, feeling Sam squeeze him a bit closer. They both laugh, and Sam feels utterly and completely rejuvenated, complete once more with his master in his arms.

It feels like ages before they have the strength to let go, so recently intertwined once more, but they stare sheepishly into the face of one another, bearing nothing but relief and bliss. Sam makes his move first, though Frodo is much too quick on the uptake, and they knock foreheads in place of anything else more intimate that could’ve taken place. They both laugh, though Sam’s cheeks quickly go bright red. Frodo wastes no time in leaning up to plant a kiss on the forehead of his swain, however, and Sam grows calm once more, having missed those soft lips upon his face. Nothing needs to be said for a time more, and their tea has definitely grown cold in waiting for them to sit back down.

“So, you intend to stop by for a time?” Sam asks nonchalantly, the smile still playing at his lips. Frodo gives a shrug, picking an apple from out of the bowl in front of them and rolling it between his hands.

“I don’t know. Something’s just come up... I may stay for a bit longer than I first intended to... unless, of course, you’re not accepting visitors at this time.”

“No, sir, ‘course we are,” he deflects, and then adds, “anything at all for you.”


End file.
